"Hell explain."

"Hell ask questions."

"Say only what you wish to say."

"No! You dont understand. I cant say anything about Geneva, and neither can you. Ive tried to explain-"

He stopped. Helden raised the automatic. "The gun is still in my hand. Get out of the car."

He preceded her up the short path to the door of the house. Except for the dim light in the windows, it was dark. The surrounding trees filtered the moonlight to such a degree that only muted rays came through the branches, so weak they seemed to disintegrate in the air.

Noel felt her hand reaching around his waist, the barrel of the gun in the small of his back.

"Heres a key. Open the door. Its difficult for him to move around."

Inside, the small room was like any other one might imagine in such a house deep in the French countryside, with one exception: Two walls were lined with books. Everything else was simple to the point of primitiveness-sturdy furniture of no discernible design, a heavy old-fashioned desk, several unlit lamps with plain shades, a wood floor, and thick, plastered walls. The books were somehow out of place.

In the far corner of the room sat an emaciated man in a wheelchair. He was between a floor lamp and a short table, the light over his left shoulder, a book in his lap. His hair was white and thin, combed carefully over his head. Holcroft guessed he was well into his seventies. In spite of his gaunt appearance, the face was strong, the eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles alert. He was dressed in a cardigan sweater buttoned to the throat, and a pair of corduroy trousers.

"Good evening, Herr Oberst," said Helden. "I hope we didnt keep you waiting too long."

"Good evening, Helden," replied the old man, putting the book to one side. "Youre here and obviously safe, Thats all that matters."

Noel watched, mesmerized, as the gaunt figure put his hands on the arms of the wheelchair and rose slowly. He was extremely tall, over six feet two or three. He continued speaking in an accent obviously German and just as obviously aristocratic.

"Youre the young man who telephoned Miss Tennyson," he said, not asking a question. "Im known simply as Oberst-colonel-which was not my rank, but Im afraid it will have to do."

"This is Noel Holcroft. He is an American, and he is the man." Helden took a step to her left, revealing the gun in her hand. "He is here against his will. He did not want to talk with you."

"How do you do, Mr. Holcroft?" The colonel nodded, offering no hand. "May I ask why youre reluctant to speak to an old man?"

"I dont know who you are," replied Noel as calmly as he could. "Further, the matters Ive discussed with Miss ... Tennyson ... are confidential."

"Does she agree?"

"Ask her." Holcroft held his breath. In seconds he would know how convincing he had been.

"They are," said Helden, "if they are true. I think they are true."

"I see. But you must be convinced, and I am the devils advocate without a brief." The old man lowered himself back into the wheelchair.

"What does that mean?" asked Noel.

"You wont discuss these confidential matters, yet I must ask questions, the answers to which could allay our anxieties. You see, Mr. Holcroft, you have no reason to be afraid of me. On the contrary, we may have a great deal to fear from you."

"Why? I dont know you; you dont know me. Whatever it is youre involved with has nothing to do with me."

"We must all be convinced of that," said the old man. "Over the telephone you spoke to Helden of urgency, of a great deal of money, of concerns that go back more than thirty years."

"Im sorry she told you that," interrupted Noel. "Even thats too much."

"She said very little else," continued the colonel. "Only that you saw her sister, and that youre interested in her brother."

"Ill say it again. Its confidential."

"And finally," said the old man, as if Holcroft had not spoken, "that you wished to meet secretly. At least, you implied as much."

"For my own reasons," said Noel. "Theyre none of your business."

"Arent they?"

"No."

"Let me summarize briefly, then." The colonel pressed the fingers of his hands together, his eyes on Holcroft. "Theres urgency, a great sum of money, matters traced back three decades, interest in the offspring of a ranking member of the Third Reichs High Command, and-most important, perhaps-a clandestine meeting. Doesnt all this suggest something?"

Noel refused to be drawn into speculation. "I have no idea what it suggests to you."

"Then Ill be specific. A trap."

"A trap?"

"Who are you, Mr. Holcroft? A disciple of ODESSA? Or a soldier of the Rache, perhaps?"

"The ODESSA?... or the ... what?" asked Holcroft.

"The Rache," replied the old man sharply, pronouncing the word with phonetic emphasis.

"The 'Rah-kuh?..." Noel returned the cripples penetrating stare. "I dont know what youre talking about."

Oberst glanced at Helden, then pulled his eyes back to Holcroft. "Youve heard of neither?"

"Ive heard of the ODESSA. I dont know anything about the ... 'Rah-kuh ... or whatever you call it."

"Recruiters and killers. Yet both recruit. Both kill. The ODESSA and the Rache. The pursuers of children."

"Pursuers of children?" Noel shook his head. "Youll have to be clearer, because I havent the vaguest idea what youre saying."

Again, the old man looked at Helden. What passed between them Holcroft could not decipher, but Oberst turned back to him, the hard eyes boring in as if studying a practiced liar, watching for signs of deception-or recognition. "Ill put it plainly to you," he said. "Are you one of those who seek out the children of Nazis? Who pursue them wherever they can be found, killing them for revenge-for crimes they never committed-making examples of the innocent? Or forcing them to join you. Threatening them with documents portraying their parents as monsters, promising to expose them as offspring of psychopaths and murderers if they refuse to be recruited-destroying what lives they have for the insanity of your cause? These are the people who seek the children, Mr. Holcroft. Are you one of them?"

Noel closed his eyes in relief. "I cant tell you how wrong you are. I wont tell you any more than that, but youre so wrong its incredible."

"We have to be sure."

"You can be. Im not involved in things like that. Ive never heard of those kind of things before. People like that are sick."

"Yes, theyre sick," agreed Oberst. "Dont mistake me. The Wiesenthals of this world search out the real monsters, the unpunished criminals who still laugh at Nrnberg, and we cant object; thats another war. But the persecution of the children must stop."

Noel turned to Helden. "Is this what youre running from? After all these years, theyre still after you?"

The old man answered. "Acts of violence take place every day. Everywhere."

"Then why doesnt anyone know about it?" demanded Holcroft. "Why arent there stories in the newspapers? Why are these things kept quiet?"

"Would ... 'anyone, as you put it, really care?" asked the colonel. "For the children of Nazis?"

"For Gods sake, they were kids." Again Noel looked at Helden. "Is what I saw tonight part of this? You have to protect each other? Is it so widespread?"

"Were called the 'children of hell, " said the Von Tiebolt daughter simply. "Damned for what we are and damned for what were not."

"I dont understand it," protested Holcroft.

"Its not vital that you do." The old soldier once again got up slowly, trying, thought Noel, to rise to his former imposing height. "Its only important that we be convinced you are from neither army. Are you satisfied, Helden?"

"Yes."

"Theres nothing more you wish me to know?"

The woman shook her head. "Im satisfied," she repeated.

"Then so am I." The colonel extended his hand to Noel. "Thank you for coming. As Helden will explain, my existence is not widely known; nor do we want it to be. We would appreciate your confidence."

Holcroft took the hand, surprised at the old mans firm grip. "If I can count on yours."

"You have my word."

"Then you have mine," Noel said.

They drove in silence, headlights knifing the darkness. Holcroft was behind the wheel, Helden in the front seat, beside him, directing him by nodding wearily, pointing to the turns. There was no screaming now; there were no harsh commands barked at the last second. Helden seemed as exhausted from the events of the night as was he. But the night was not over; they had to talk.

"Was all that necessary?" he asked. "Was it so important for him to see me?"

"Very much so. He had to be convinced you werent part of the ODESSA. Or the Rache."

"What exactly are they? He spoke as if I should know, but I dont. I didnt really understand him."

"Theyre two extremist organizations, sworn enemies of each other. Both fanatic, both after us."

"Us?"

"The children of Party leaders. Wherever we are; wherever weve scattered to."

"Why?"

"The ODESSA seeks to revive the Nazi party. The disciples of ODESSA are everywhere."

"Seriously? Theyre for real?"

"Very real. And very serious. The ODESSAS recruiting methods range from blackmail to physical force. Theyre gangsters."

"And this ... 'Rah-kuh?"

"Rache. The German word for 'vengeance. In the beginning it was a society formed by the survivors of the concentration camps. They hunted the sadists and the killers, those thousands who were never brought to trial."

"Its a Jewish organization, then?"

"There are Jews in the Rache, yes, but now theyre a minority. The Israelis formed their own groups and operated out of Tel Aviv and Haifa. The Rache is primarily Communist; many believe it was taken over by the KGB. Others think Third World revolutionaries gravitated to it. The 'vengeance they spoke of in the beginning has become something else. The Rache is a haven for terrorists."

"But why are they after you?"

Helden looked at him through the shadows. "To recruit us. Like everyone else, we have our share of revolutionaries. Theyre drawn to the Rache; it represents the opposite of what theyre running from. For most of us, however, its no better than the Party at its worst. And on those of us who wont be recruited, the Rache uses its harsher tactics. Were the scapegoats, the fascists theyre stamping out. They use our names-often our corpses-to tell people Nazis still live. Not unlike the ODESSA, its frequently 'recruit or kill. "

"Its insane," said Noel.

"Insane," agreed Helden. "But very real. We say nothing; were not anxious to call attention to ourselves. Besides, who would care? Were Nazi children."

"The ODESSA, the Rache.... No one I know knows anything about them."

"No one you know has any reason to."

"Whos Oberst?"

"A great man who must remain in hiding for the rest of his life because he had a conscience."

"What do you mean?"

"He was a member of the High Command and saw the horrors. He knew it was futile to object; others had, and they were killed. Instead, he remained, and used his rank to countermand order after order, saving God knows how many lives."

"Theres nothing dishonorable in that."

"He did it the only way he could. Quietly, within the bureaucracy of command, without notice. When it was over, the Allies convicted him because of his status in the Reich; he spent eighteen years in prison. When what he did finally came out, thousands of Germans despised him. They called him a traitor. What was left of the Officer Corps put a price on his head."

Noel, remembering Heldens words, said, "Damned for what he was and damned for what he wasnt."

"Yes," she answered, pointing suddenly to a turn in the road shed nearly missed.

"In his own way," said Noel, turning the wheel, "Oberst is like the three men who wrote the Geneva document. Didnt it occur to you?"

"It occurred to me."

"You must have been tempted to tell him."

"Not really. You asked me not to."

He looked at her; she was looking straight ahead, through the windshield. Her face was tired and drawn, her skin pale, accentuating the dark hollows beneath her eyes. She seemed alone, and that aloneness was not to be intruded upon lightly. But the night was not over. They had things to say to each other; decisions had to be made.

For Noel was beginning to think that this youngest child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt would be the one selected to represent the Von Tiebolt family in Geneva.

"Can we go someplace where its quiet? I think a drink would do us both good."